by D. F. Jones
Control was a small operations room manned continuously by ranking Air Force officers responsible to the ICARUS committee — on whose orders they would originate the code word, relay instructions, and update the file of missing planes. Hooked into the air defense teletype network, they would know at once if a missing aircraft turned up, and would promptly alert the ICARUS committee. This was all Control knew and they were not encouraged to speculate.
Arcasso and his fellow members set up a four-day roster. On a duty day the committee member kept close contact with the duty officer. For the other three days he was free to move wherever he liked or needed to be — provided he maintained communications and could be back in the Pentagon within three hours. In their different ways, all four men prayed it would never happen. It would have surprised the others, had they known, that tough old Arcasso — the sloppiest dresser ever to make lieutenant-colonel — had taken to saying his prayers in church.
VII.
The twentieth century has seen the gradual erosion of the importance of the family in America. A weds B, both leave their parents, set up home, raise kids — who repeat the pattern, leaving A and B to their own devices, free to visit their children’s families, but preferably not too often. Then A or B dies. The survivor is left alone, often with no function or purpose in life.
Which is why parts of Florida are the way they are, and why Social Circles are so popular, especially with widowed grandmothers, deprived of their ancient right to boss the family from the fireside while keeping an eye on the stew pot.
The Social Circle of Abdera Hollow, New York, was a lot more than a geriatric get-together: Imbued with the good old American spirit of get-up-and-go, it took full advantage of cheap globe-trotting packages for organized groups, and traveled as often as possible.
Seventy-two Circle members had organized a European tour (“Five Countries and Four Capitals in Ten Days”) in September, 1982. The last stop was Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France.
Forty were widows or footloose wives; fourteen retired couples, two adventurous widowers, and two single females — who ruined the average age — completed the party. One of the younger women, thirty and newly divorced, came because she couldn’t think of anything better to do. The other, twenty, was the niece of one of the widows; she went along, all expenses paid, in return for a little light donkey-work. It was better than staying home and mulling over a disastrous love affair. These two apart, the age scale began at forty-seven and ended at an energetic eighty-two. Most were in their early seventies.
The party had at last been corralled for the return flight by that modern cowboy, the courier. Practically dead on his feet, he was sustained by the thought of the small wad of heavily-scented dollar bills in his jeans — there’s always one or two on any tour prepared to pay for a little synthetic romance. He waited, eager to be gone, sadly eyeing the young blonde. He’d gladly have obliged her free.
He glanced at his watch. They were late boarding, but he couldn’t go — left to their own devices, some would get themselves locked in lavatories, and one or two were quite capable of winding up back in a Parisian nightclub, on top of the Eiffel Tower, anyplace.
Some of his untrustworthy flock were also casting calculating glances around, noting nontour passengers — and a dull lot they were. A family of five, the kids an authentic pain in the ass before they even got aboard. Half a dozen glum businessmen, nursing bags stuffed with dirty shirts, and no doubt ulcers as well. These were a familiar and unattractive sight to many a widowed eye.
The courier checked the airline desk. Autumnal fog had clamped down across half of Europe; connecting flights were late. Fog was approaching de Gaulle, but the plane would be cleared before conditions got marginal. That cheered him.
*
Two hours late and four-fifths empty, the giant plane, call sign Papa Kilo, took off. At dawn the pilot reported he was on course, ten minutes behind revised schedule due to head winds.
And after that, nothing.
*
Few people outside of New York State, and not many in it, had ever heard of Abdera Hollow. Legend held that a congressman, desperate for reelection, honored the township with a visit back in the 1890s, and there had been a nasty boardinghouse fire in the twenties. That was about all the excitement this hamlet had seen.
Abdera began in a shallow hollow or dip, a natural resting place after the long haul uphill from the east. Pallid New Yorkers came for their annual vacations, enjoying a brief bucolic retreat on the edge of the Catskills. By the mid-twenties Abdera had overflowed its hollow; Main Street included a livery stable-cum-gas station, a saloon, three stores, three modest hotels, Mom’s Diner, and a chapel. In the last golden year before the ‘29 crash two more stores, a post office, a barber shop, a mortician’s parlor, and a discreet whorehouse had been added — the latter operating, of course, solely for the convenience of the summer visitors. Those were indeed the days.
And then the bad times. After the Wall Street debacle, the Depression had sunk its teeth into Abdera, and half the town had gone up for sale. The slow recovery, NRA, and the drift toward war had barely touched the town. And another adversity was making itself felt — air travel. New Yorkers discovered Florida, and as flying became cheaper more and more of them headed south. By 1945, Abdera Hollow’s population was half of what it had been at the turn of the century, and much of Main Street lay derelict. With the departure of the younger folk, only the mortician thrived; and with the closing of the wartime army camp, the whorehouse folded. Abdera eked out a shaky existence from a few faithful vacationers, adulterous weekenders, and agriculture.
But the wheel turned; someone discovered the Catskills had from time to time a great deal of snow. Winter sports arrived on the New Yorkers’ doorstep and Abdera was back in business.
One thing did happen in the lean years. There had been a doctor around, a relic of the horse-and-buggy days. The locals got by with him, knowing no better, but it was generally agreed that Abdera was no place to get sick. The old man died, and for a time Abdera did without. Then Mark Freedman, M.D., hung up his shingle.
Laymen are seldom competent to judge a professional in his specialty — not that it stops them, especially in a community like Abdera. Freedman was totally unlike his predecessor. He was not strong on goose grease and similar homely remedies, nor did he use bourbon as a perfume. But — grudgingly at first — the locals had to admit he knew his stuff. He was a strangely birdlike figure, quick of movement and even quicker of mind. Many wondered why he had chosen Abdera over the richer pastures around Central Park. But after ten years of globe-trotting his wife had been ready for a rural life, and so, in fact, had he.
He soon proved to be a first-class physician, and when the winter sports craze took hold, he was particularly busy with splints and plaster. His practice expanded well beyond the town, and in the late 1970s he took on a young assistant, James Scott. Twenty years after his arrival, Freedman was a leading citizen, visiting physician and psychiatrist at the county hospital, a noted authority on local wildlife — and a deadly poker player.
His first twenty years in Abdera Hollow ended in 1982, the year the town rocketed from total obscurity to world notoriety in a matter of weeks.
Since the population of Abdera was no more than fifteen hundred, the loss of seventy-two people in a single “accident” was felt by practically everyone in town. Many were related to at least one of the victims; others had been friends or neighbors. For a week a sense of shock hung over the town. Every encounter, in street or store, occasioned a sharp evaluation of the loss — a mother? — a wife? The media, quick to grasp the drama of the tragedy, did nothing to improve matters.
Freedman and Scott felt the loss as keenly as did most blood relations. Death was no novelty to them, but the majority of the victims had been patients, and they caught the backlash of the bereaved.
Some were truly desolate: husbands who realized, far too late, the emptiness of the lives their lost
wives had left behind. Others were delighted; Freedman knew of these men through his poker school or his more gossipy friends. Not that he sought dirt. But his respect for any confidence quite naturally attracted secrets. Freedman mentally filed all that he heard, adding to his knowledge of human psychology.
In the weeks following the “accident” he learned a great deal. Many citizens, lacking lawyers, approached Freedman for advice on possible claims against the airline. Some of them he found sickening, appallingly eager to cash in on the death of a friend or relative. Within a month of Papa Kilo’s disappearance, several promising lawsuits were in progress. The victims would have been astounded at the value their next of kin placed upon them.
Some were indeed astounded, but that came later. First came the shattering astonishment, the helpless incredulity of their nearest and dearest — and of the world.
VIII.
In the first year of the committee’s life nothing remarkable happened. A few small planes, all foreign, were unaccountably lost and stayed lost. But no one can hold his breath forever; tension gradually eased among the ICARUS people.
The committee tidied up its contingency plan for a third Event, then turned to other aspects of ICARUS. They had done all they could to get a plane safely and discreetly back, but what then? Suppose the news broke, what would the reaction be? Obviously, air travel would suffer a terrible blow. But what else — shock? panic?
They drafted several scenarios. If a U.S. military plane returned in U.S. controlled airspace, there was a fair chance it could be hushed up. They’d already dealt with that; Case One, Alfa, as it was designated, was pushed aside.
Case One, Bravo, envisaged a military plane materializing in non-U.S. airspace. The mere idea made them sweat. But Soviet reaction was not the highest priority; the Top Seven would quickly appreciate that it was an Event, not an attack. Or would they? Wouldn’t even those top men suspect a ruse, an attempt to take advantage of ICARUS? And whatever their view might be, was their control tight enough to prevent someone in Soviet Air Defense hacking the plane out of the sky? On balance, though, Soviet response was not a serious problem; whatever happened, the KGB net would cover every Soviet citizen: where he worked, wherever he traveled, whatever he read or said. No, the Western world posed a far greater threat to security. Suppose a lost bomber were to reappear in the Middle East? A nasty hypothesis. Case Two, which dealt with civil aircraft, was only fractionally better.
To meet the demands of these cases, hundreds of letters outlining the first two Events were produced, each signed personally by the President, each exhorting the recipient to play the matter down, even if the secret could not be contained. The one secretary cleared by ICARUS had the novel experience of seeing Arcasso and the deputy heads of the CIA and FBI working like office juniors, sealing envelopes, making up Top Secret mail packs. Each state governor got his own pack, not to be opened until a code word was received; he was then responsible for the immediate distribution of his letters. With the help of the recipients, he was to muzzle the press, TV, anyone likely to blow the story.
Similar packs went to all ambassadors for similar action abroad. An info copy went to the Soviet ICARUS committee.
It was only when the last pack was gone and the secretary and her office juniors were relaxing over coffee that CIA Joe had his idea.
Sucking a thumb which had tangled with an electric stapler, he suddenly froze, thumb in mouth, a blank expression on his face.
“Joe,” Malin, the FBI man, said caustically, “hold it while I fetch a camera, my boys ‘d pay ten bucks a print.”
“I wonder … ” Joe abandoned his thumb and looked at his colleagues. “I think I’ve got an idea … Of course, it’s a downright lie, but … ” He drifted away in thought again.
“Come on, Joe!”
He refused to be hurried. “It’s based on one simple fact of life. If I say I’ve never stepped out of line sex-wise in my life, I don’t expect folks would bank on it.” His manner stopped any wise cracks. “On the other hand, if I state I’m mighty fond of small boys — ” He shrugged. “I know which would be believed.”
“So?”
“Suppose the U.S. owns up?”
“Owns up to what?”
“Suppose we say the Event is due to a malfunction in a new and untested defense system?” CIA Joe feigned interest in his thumb.
“Don’t tell me; we have a time-warp device of wide range but uncertain accuracy?” asked Malin sardonically.
“Well, yes.”
Arcasso broke the silence. “But that’s pure Star Trek stuff! Who’d fall for that?”
“A helluva lot of people, I’d say,” said Malin. “My guess is a whole heap believed in that Martian guy — and we’d have hard evidence — the Event — as collateral.”
“It’d cost a few million in compensation,” Joe argued, “but what’s that compared to the collapse of aviation transportation, the panic and confusion? There’s a lot to be said for the idea — the system’s not offensive, the masses aren’t threatened, no bombs dropped on cities.” He smiled as his mind explored the possibilities. “Certain parties who figure the nuclear deterrent is hamstrung, and that they can pull our noses with impunity, would certainly be forced to think again.”
“One thing’s for sure,” observed Arcasso somberly, “it’s less fantastic than the real answer.”
Sarah, the secretary, was no longer able to contain her curiosity. “Yes! What is the answer?”
Arcasso looked at her swiftly. So did Joe. Her voice was pitched a fraction too high. “Slow down, Sarah,” growled Joe warningly.
But she had gone too far to turn back; she lit a rare cigarette, her hands trembling slightly. “Look, maybe I’m out of line, but I handle all ICARUS material and keep the records, and that’s one thing I never hear about — the cause! I’m not dumb; you must discuss it — yet I don’t know a thing!” Her voice climbed. “I’m not a machine, I’m one of the ten people in on this frightening case, but I’m excluded from the very center of ICARUS! Think of me knowing so much, but left out on my own. I can’t talk with anyone!” She looked wildly at her companions. “Okay, I’m damned sure you don’t have a solid answer, but what do you suspect?” She hesitated, turning her head away from their gaze. “Don’t leave me out in the cold … She faced them once more, defiant, unsure, and forced a tight smile. “Silly, but when I’m alone, I sometimes think ICARUS is … ” — Her voice sank to a whisper — “is God.”
Arcasso stared at her strained face. She seemed so different now, hardly the same woman he had first met in “Smith’s” outer office. Up to now, she’d been part of the furniture.
“Sarah,” he said gently, “you know as much as we do; your guess is as good as ours.”
Sarah stared at him, her mouth trembling. In the same low whisper she asked, “Then I’m not going crazy? It could be — God?”
Frank felt great sympathy. He’d had the same thought — they all had — but what man in the late twentieth century, especially a high government official, dared to start talking about God in relation to a hard, factual case? Woolly generalities were one thing, especially from politicians around election time, but … He could only repeat, “Sarah, we don’t know. For my part, I don’t rule anything out.”
Alvin Malin of the FBI was silent, impassive. If this was the reaction of a switched-on person who knew all the facts … Joe’s thoughts followed a different path. He’d happily settle for God — but suppose it was the Devil?
*
Two days later Jumbo Papa Kilo was missing, and a twenty-four hour intensive search produced nothing. On the committee’s advice, the President ordered an all-out combined operation by Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard. A score of ships, dozens of planes, fixed-wing and helos, scoured every likely square meter of ocean.
Conditions were nearly perfect: low sea state, good visibility; yet nothing was found. On the fourth day the committee gave the President its unanimous opinion: A third Event was in progr
ess.
IX.
The twenty-four hour chore of Duty ICARUS started at 9 A.M. daily. On Wednesday, December 15, 1982, at 8:45 A.M., Colonel Frank Arcasso lumbered into the ICARUS operations room, already in a gray mood from another breakfast hassle with his wife. They fought with increasing frequency these days. She said he’d changed. She said she was tired of this four-day rotation. Okay, he might have become a bird colonel faster than he’d expected, but what good was that if he was chained to his desk day in, day out?
Arcasso had no satisfactory answer. He had changed, physically as well as temperamentally. Without trying, he’d lost weight. His suits and uniforms disgraced not just the USAF but the entire Armed Forces. ICARUS nagged his mind like a bad tooth.
He’d taken to dropping in on Sarah partly to keep an eye on her for security’s sake, partly for a little female company where the very word ICARUS was not off limits. God knew, he had no sexual ambitions; sex hardly figured in his life these days. A toothache of any sort dampens libido.
The duty officer made his usual report. The wreckage of a light aircraft missing for a week had been located in the Brazilian rain forest; that was all.
Arcasso glanced at the Missing Aircraft stateboard; the light plane had been crossed out. His gaze rested on Papa Kilo. That was the one …